


Oh, Brother

by beautifullyheeled



Series: No Redemption [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal John, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just a magic trick.</p><p>Nothing more.</p><p>Then it wasn’t.</p><p>As he watched John from a distance, he could hear his words ghost through the breeze.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Bookend to Undo Love. Left open for possible further chapters even though currently marked as finished.

_It was just a magic trick._

_Nothing more._

_Then it wasn’t._

As he watched John from a distance, he could hear his words ghost through the breeze. 

“The most human...”

‘No, John. If I were I would be there still beside you.’ Sherlock answered, the thoughts echoing within himself never to be spoken. ‘I would never had put you through this, please make it through this.’ 

“Please, just one more thing for me...just...don’t be dead. Alright? Please?”

‘I’m right here.’ Sherlock knew what he was going to protect by his absence. ‘John, please see me. Come away with me...look this way then you’ll have to go with me.’

But all of Sherlock’s internal machinations were for naught. John finally stood militarily straight, quarter turned, then left Sherlock’s grave site. It was horrid, bitter, acridic and Sherlock wanted nothing more then to take that walk beside his only friend. He cared, loved the man dearly, as his own life in reality. The things he was forced to do at this point, and without his Conductor, his true North. Sherlock only hoped he could function once again without him. 

Months passed, Sherlock knew John had begun to move forward with his life. He was surprised to find out through his Irregulars that he was engaged to be married to a school teacher who volunteered at the parish he attended the Grief counseling sessions. Her name was Mary, months later they were married, he had a single picture of John from the iPhone he gave Raz. Then just a few months later other news about Mary began to find his ears. 

She had begun regularly seeing a very old boyfriend from University, and soon she was expecting. Sherlock had his doubts about the child being John’s but he prayed, if there was anything good or benevolent, that the child would be his. John had always deep down wanted a family, that was one reason he always rebuffed the idea of he and Sherlock because Sherlock could never provide children in a conventional manner as he was another man. He would have done anything, even adopted, to make John happy though. Turned their world inside out and make it as idyllic as John wished had he know for certain that he would have been able to keep John as his own.

Sherlock had by now realised that he loved John very much. That he had been an absolute idiot, and was worried more and more often about John and his unfaithful wife. Why she did not just annul or divorce, Sherlock could not understand so he had the lover followed. As certain as there was a dawn, Sherlock found out that he was married as well. His wife could not have children though, how convenient for him. He could play house and then go home to a perfectly immaculate life, leaving John and Mary to raise his bastard.

Then the day of the accident happened. Well, he says accident, but he knows the truth of it before anyone else. The photos gleaned and the CCTV footage, although grainy, show later, without a shadow of a doubt that she purposely stepped out. She had full intentions on her and the child dying. That stupid woman, John would have stayed with her anyway, this had not been necessary. It became worse, Sherlock was virulently angered for his friend when he found out the child survived, that John had given her the middle name Sherlock had always wanted to name his child, if he had had one. He named her as if she were theirs. 

And yes, there was nothing but truth in that. 

But it was their truth, hidden from even them until Sherlock was dead and John had moved on. Still, he indulged in a moment of weakness, had a small beautifully crafted blanket monogrammed for her. After all, he did want the best for John, and the small life that would probably not even survive the next few weeks. She could be buried with it possibly, or he could swaddle her never knowing that, in a small way, Sherlock was still a part of his life. The more time that passed though, the child became stronger, and to Sherlock, a poisonous lie that would truly end John if he found out any later in her life.

He had refused to interfere until the child was due home. She had survived and John would soon be a full time nanny to the child, he couldn’t stand to use the honorific father in this instance, it was to wrong-footed because he knew the truth of it all. It just took a few spare moments for him to slip into John’s flat and move the diary to a place where it would be easily found. It had been underneath her bedside drawer hidden, John might never had taken it all the way out, and he had to know the truth. Sherlock refused to have him lied to about the paternity any longer. 

John found it the next day. Sherlock knew because there were a round of tests ordered for paternity proof, and there were calls that had been made in the hallway outside of the child’s FSU to Mary’s parents. The truth outed, there were hasty plans to make. John gave them all of the nursery, down to the very last small sock. Everything but the small monogrammed blanket that John was never quite able to suss out who had had it sent. This he carefully had folded and put into the back of his bottom drawer in the small box it had originally came in. 

A few days had past, John slowly coming out of his flat again for small routine trips when he diverged and went to the florists one day. Today must be a Visiting Day, Sherlock calculated quickly, remembered why this date was important and went to alert an Irregular to go watch over John and to notify him when he had left the cemetery so he could go pick up the letter that was left. When finally contacted, it was later then usual, and the person told him there had been no letter left for him, but that John had sat and spoken instead. This began to set off a set of alarms in Sherlock that he had never knew existed. 

It was certain that John always left a token, generally it was flowers, or a chocolate, or a shot of whiskey on his birthday. The one thing that never had strayed in his pattern the nineteen times John had visited was the letter. Parts of the behavior came together swiftly for Sherlock, he left no note, or rather John had, but it was verbal. Just like Sherlock’s last note, or so John had thought. But Sherlock was very much alive, and had begun dismantling the web on his own, a rogue agent so that he could rise from the ashes and hopefully, one day earn back John’s trust. Possibly even forgiveness, but these thoughts were for later.

Sherlock went straightaway to John’s and let himself in quietly with as little noise as was possible, and stood silent to listen for sounds of life. 

“I love you, miss you. So sorry...I waited so long. I should have been more for you...maybe then...” John stated somberly in the other room before Sherlock heard him turn the water off. Then Sherlock could hear the sudden jerk in the bath, and he rushed in to see John sinking into the water, two neat rows of pills and the bottle beside him. 

“John!” Sherlock cried, “No, John you have to listen to me, _stay awake_!”

There was no response as he hoisted John out of the bath and laid him away from the evidence, placed him on his side and demanded of his friends body to retch up anything that it could. Sherlock retrieved his phone and dialed Lestrade, there was no help for it now, they had to know in this fashion, he refused to see John dead. The conversation lasted seconds as Sherlock continued to work on John finally getting him to vomit up what he could then continued to cradle him as he tried to get him to purge further.

“Oh please, God, John you can’t do this. You’re so much better than...”

The two sets of running strides coming to them thankfully ahead of the paramedics, were his brothers and Lestrade’s. They began and honed in on only what was important at the moment to them all, John. The rest could be dealt with later. Sherlock would gladly allow them to bloody him, but not when the life most precious to him hung in the balance.

When the medics arrived, Sherlock quickly explains what he believes John has taken, that he had still been coherent, and how much he possibly had ingested before Sherlock found him. He was left standing at the curb as they closed the doors and took John to St. Bart’s. How poetic their reunion would be, if he made it through the night. Right at this moment though he had two men he had to explain so much to, so much forgiveness to ask, and such a small amount of time to do it in. John would need them all to pull him through this.

“Sherlock, I could give a _flying_ rat’s arse if you think it was right, it wasn’t!” Lestrade had railed at him from the moment they three of them entered Mycroft’s car. “And your sodded bother! Him! You know, the man right beside me? He flew to _bits_ you twat!”

He knew, Sherlock knew all of this. 

Sherlock allowed Lestrade to continue because he knew the man needed to not only vent his frustration over Sherlock’s miraculous reappearance, but John’s obviously attempted suicide. They were all very concerned, no one more so then him, as he had been to blame for the whole thing. Why hadn’t he just left a small clue, a sign somewhere, that only they could have interpreted. Especially over the course of Sherlock’s name being cleared he might have been able to slip something through.

“There are snipers still,” Sherlock proffered. “I haven’t neutralised them all.”

He refused to not accept full blame, but he needed them to understand the full scope of the road before them. As soon as Sherlock was know to still be alive, especially with his name cleared, they all became viable assets again to the ones who were still payed to assassinate them. There was a five year contract, money already being held in the event of Moriarty’s demise. He had really planned it as well as Sherlock would have.

“What did you just say?” Lestrade asked incredulous. “Snipers? There is no way that is even possible. Mycroft?”

“Gregory, unfortunately my brother’s assessment of the situation is correct.” Mycroft looked disdainfully away at the notion. “We were never able to account for all of them, you knew this.”

“Yea, well I thought they had been paid, got bored, and left for better stakes elsewhere.”

“I am afraid this was not the case Lestrade,” Sherlock stated hesitantly. “Now I’ve managed to fail John; fail you as well.”

“For fuck’s sake Sherlock, I’m right pissed, but you’ve not let me down...nor your brother...I’m just glad you’re not really in the ground.”

Sherlock heard them continue the conversation, added when needed, then sat silently until they left him in the vehicle to access the situation. Mycroft would let him know shortly when it was safe to enter. He desperately wanted to be with John this very second, but all he would do would be get in the way of the heroics they were most likely performing to keep John in the world. The possible stir of his reemergence into life might be a hinderance as well to the continuity of care for John as well. Damn him for hurting John, he deserved all the pain he suffered, everything that John chose to say or do to Sherlock he would permit. 

 

“Just please, John. Don’t leave me alone...be my miracle now...”

He whispered into John’s ear as he leaned to kiss his temple, ruffles his hair just to be able to feel it beneath his fingers. To breathe his warm scent in that was John’s soap mixed with the man himself. Other acerbic scents were there as well, but Sherlock could filter them all away, only John was tantamount now. 

When Sherlock finally was able to enter the private room, he was stunned at how much physical pain it caused him to see John in that state. They had pumped his stomach, but some of the meds had already absorbed, even with Sherlock’s quick work. He wasn’t poisoned, nor dying, just mildly sedated at this point to force his body to rest. 

“John, how can I help? What would you have me do?”

The compact doctor slept on, his left hand and fingers twitched against the covers.

“What do you dream at night?” Sherlock knew his mind, where it most likely went. “No longer Afghanistan, I’ll warrant. The Fall then...do you see me there? Replay it? I know I do.”

He had no recompence, nothing he could do now, but beg forgiveness. He would grovel if he had to just to be in his life, to share the same space. Sherlock had been an unseeing fool and needed to right both of their worlds. He only could hold out the hope, that when John awoke, he would feel the same.

“There must be something new,” Sherlock wept, bitter tears ran down his face. “We can bring forward from the old...anything.”

“Sherlock, I’ll tell you again, I do not think this will work...”

“It has to work! John is in there, that tiny hospital room. I can’t even be there!”

“He’ll be home soon enough-”

“No, Mycroft. It won’t be. I wanted to be there!”

Sherlock threw his body down on the sofa, he did not give a care for propriety at this point. It could all hang as far as he were concerned. John had awoke nine hours ago, and he was stuck here, in John’s parlor with Mycroft here to keep him from going utterly insane. He needed to be by John desperately; could not stand that he still did not know Sherlock was alive, let alone in his flat on his sofa.

“So Greg is bringing him home, then what?” Sherlock surly demeanor showed his hand. “Oh, here you go John. It’s a welcome home gift...waiting in your parlor.”

“You know very well that is not how it will be handled!”

“Mycroft, I don’t know how to handle this.”

“None of us do Sherlock,” Mycroft crossed the room, then sat beside him. “Brother, none of us do. All I can tell you is you need to be _honest_.”

“I know that!”

He stood, agitated. Decided to walk across to the windows, but stood a good two feet from the actual thing. The sheer material would disclose that there was someone in the flat if he went any closer. Hideous things, Sherlock decided, John needed better then these, possibly a whisper thin linen instead. What on earth had Mary even been thinking?

“Sherlock, the woman is dead...” Mycroft let his statement die. “Though I do share the sentiment about the choice of window coverings.”

“Thank you. At least we can agree on some things...Oh, God! Is there any tea in? Does he even have a proper kettle?”

“I’m sure he does, it is John we are speaking of now.”

“Yes, it is.” Sherlock scrubbed his face in his hands, breathed deeply and headed toward the kitchen. “I’ll see what’s in.”

“Chloe will be bringing soon. You’re going to need all the available tools for a proper apology, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft-”

“No, Sherlock. Please,” Mycroft sighed went over to Sherlock. “Please listen to me this once. I want this to be fixed. For the _both_ of you. I understood, Gregory as well. We’re cut of the same cloth. John though, he served differently; he saw you as a brother in arms Sherlock. He’s going to feel quite betrayed never having had to keep the secrets that some of us still retain.”

“I understand, I know already...I just hope he’ll give me that chance.”

The two brothers discussed the plan to ‘resurrect’ Sherlock, which would be no simple feat, even for Mycroft. Death was a very messy bureaucratic thing apparently. He did agree though to see that John kept his stipend from the Holmes estate no matter what transpired between John and his brother. Sherlock felt much better about all the nonsense related to his impending cross-over back into the land of the living with the knowledge that John would be secure the rest of his days no matter where everything else fell.

Not very much later Chloe came up with an understated bouquet, and chinese from their favorite shop with the message that John would be arriving with Lestrade in a matter of moments before she turned and left. Mycroft stood, nodded once, and went to go meet the two other men. 

It would all be up to Sherlock now.

**Author's Note:**

> Music for this fic:
> 
> MIKA ~ Happy Endings  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6EmqB1p1y5U
> 
> Thank you, Conductoroftardislight, for pointing me to it.


End file.
